Volume 4, Number 1 - Fall 1970
The Day I Met Douglas Mahnkey
By Blunt Martin
Long before dark, Mother and I had been well advised of the flood, and that we should follow the ridge road home rather than try to ford Fox Creek. Such Ozark Mountain streams were swift and extremely dangerous when flooded.
I was now 14 years of age. Father had died and I was the eldest of mother’s pack of four hungry orphans. That day Mother and I had gone to Hollister, Missouri. It was 16 miles over the top of Pine Mountian. It was our nearest town and railroad station. We had traveled in the lumber-wagon and had taken eggs, fruit and vegetables for sale or barter for our groceries and meager necessities.
The morning had been bright and clear. In the afternoon, a storm appeared from over the hills. Rain fell in torrents, (old timers said it "rained cats and dogs"). Some of the hill folks reported a water-spout near the head of Fox Creek.
On our return home, darkness overtook us in the heavily wooded hills. Since horses carry no head-lights, we missed the dim ridge road and continued down the steep mountainside to the upper ford of Fox Creek. Heavy rain continued to fall on Mother and me. We had been soaking wet for hours as we had neither rain coats nor umbrellas.
Upon reaching the ford, we heard the violent rush of water. Knowing that the flood would sweep us away in the darkness, I finally managed to get the wagon and team turned around on the narrow road. It was past midnight when we headed back up the mountain in search of the ridge road.
Finally, at three o’clock in the morning, we found our way to Mahnkey’s Mincy Store and Post Office. All was silent and dark—not a flicker of light. We were still five miles from home, and there remained two treacherous crossings of Bee Creek. Rain continued to pour and spill, and Mother and I were tired and cold.
Mr. Preston Mahnkey had recently bought the Mincy Store. We had met the family, but did not, as yet, know them very well. This, I did know: They had a cute little daughter, Roberta, who was near my age!
So it was with great embarrassment that approached their fine white house and knocked on the door. Finally, Mr. Mahnkey lit a kerosene lamp and came down the stairway. I explained our plight, and that the flood on Bee Creek would prevent our getting home that night. He was very cordial and insisted that we come in out of the rain. I recall that I was barefooted and my feet were extremely muddy. I asked for water and a foot basin at the back door before going in.
Somewhat before daybreak, dear Mrs. Mahnkey found dry night clothes for us. I tried to sleep, but was too tired and excited to achieve more than a fitful doze. It was the biggest house I had ever attempted to sleep in. It was my first two-story house, and my first white-painted house. In a large, private bedroom, all was strangely quiet. In comparison to our one-room log cabin, the Mahnkey house was the ultimate in gracious living.
I arose early that morning and walked across the road to the general store. Here, I met for the first time the Mahnkey’s young son, Douglas. He was, perhaps, a year or two younger than I, but appeared older, because of experience in his dad’s business and his contact with the public. Doug handled sales and other matters of business with perfect dispatch. He handled matters at the store, at the gin, or at the mill with equal finesse. Doug never knew it, but he became my ideal. I strove to emulate him in many ways. I envied him. He had store-bought clothes. I was ashamed of my home-made shirt and overalls. He had a professional looking haircut. My ears still needed to be lowered! No doubt, I would have passed favorably for a present-day beatnick, even though my attitudes and amibitions were vastly different.
Doug planned to go away for high school someday. I felt "stuck" in a sitijafion where I had to help make the living for Mother and us children. Of course, I would never desert them when in need. However, I knew I could never get through the eighth grade in the Bee Creek School, because it could afford only three or six months terms each year. I shall never forget the day a few years later, when I learned for certain that Doug planned to attend The School of the Ozarks the next fall.
Mother had returned from a horseback trip to the Mincy Store. She rode out where I
[1]
was turning ground in preparation for next spring’s planting. She told me of Doug’s school plans for the fall of 1918: I gave "old Dobbin" a vigorous slash with the plow lines and proceeded to cry for the next half hour as I plowed the field. Tears wet the dust on my cheeks and fell to the ground. At dinner time Mother saw that I was greatly disturbed and that I had been crying. She wisely pressed the issue, and I said, "Mother, here I am, almost 17 years old and still in the seventh grade. What future is there for me here on these rocky hillsides?’’ She was deeply understanding and said she would pray the Lord that "a way would open up" for both me and my sister Blawnie.
Shortly after this, mother packed our worldly possessions in a small box, put Blawnie and me in the lumber wagon and took us 15 miles to Forsyth where we enrolled in the seventh grade under Vernon James, January 1, 1918. Luckily, I was not thrown out for failing to shave!
But, let’s get back to my story, and to the problem of getting home across the high water. It was around noon before Bee Creek ran down, and we could safely cross with wagon and team. The three smaller children had done a good job, as they stayed home and cared for things while we were gone. Needless to say, they were greatly relieved and happy to see us return.
Through more than a half century I have observed Doug’s growth and development. He has achieved one of the most enviable records of public service and genuine good citizenship ever to be set by a Taney County boy. I am sure his finest hour has been in the publication of his new book, Bright Glowed My Hills. Thoroughly enjoyable, it is a book, not only of early historical records of much of Taney County, but also of excellent humor, pathos and folklore of genuine hillfolks of the Ozarks.
My hearty congratulations attend Doug’s eminent success as attorney, legislator, author, and citizen. My humble thanks continue to go to him for his understanding, comfort and hope, extended to me in my youthful hours of need. Although more than 50 years have come and gone since the day I first met Douglas Mahnkey, those early impressions still cling vividly to the walls of memory in deep appreciation.
[2]
This volume: Next Article | Table of Contents | Other Issues
Other Volumes | Keyword Search | White River Valley Quarterly Home | Local History Home
Copyright © White River Valley Historical Quarterly
